


Right On Time

by susiephalange



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, Female Reader, Female pronouns, Fluff, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 16:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11211600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: In a world where human beings have soulmates, not all people meet theirs, or even fall in love for one another. Reade's a perfect example of the fruits of that labour. But one day, Reader wakes to see marks, and drawings appear on her arms, and aross town and working two jobs, Kraglin Obfonteri has the same predicament.





	Right On Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from an anon on my tumblr blog, who asked for some modern au soulmate Kraglin/Reader. Hope you like this Nonny!

The January you got the job at the university as the professor’s assistant, was the same May that your skin started telling stories. It sounds strange when put that way, but that was life. Some people had computers embedded into their arms, or a colour-blindness that kept them from seeing the love of their lives’ eye colour. You were barely twenty-two, and honestly, freaked out. The whole soulmate phenomenon was as unpredictable as it sounded. It was never expected to happen since birth, nor some magical day allocated to you for the universe to shout out _hurrah!_ Gosh, no. You were just as clueless as to the person you would fall for. Except, you knew they liked to draw lazy little spirals on their forearms, and get bruises the colour of peaches upon their chest, and neck. So, you wore layers of clothes to hide it all from the professor, and from the world.

But once you were back in your private room (complimentary housing from the pocket of Dr Irani Rael’s tenure) you bared your skin, watching the child-like pictures come to life while you marked her endless papers, watching as they would fade away in time, or wash away in the shower. It was like a secret magic you had to yourself, something only you knew about. It felt good having a secret, like it was just for your eyes only, and the person who left you such pretty pictures on your forearms. Almost absentmindedly, you started doodling back – colouring in a stencilled picture, or writing _to-do_ notes on the back of your hand only to have a reply of _don’t forget to do laundry!!_ or _you drink coffee too? gosh you might be my soulmate!_ It was oddly comforting knowing someone out there had a sort of intimate-knowledge of you, without it being too intimate.

To be frank, it was strange that it would ever happen to you. Your parents had not been soulmates, and lived happy lives with the people they were destined to be with (just not each other) and their children in other wedlock’s had their fair share of the fantasy of falling in love. Perhaps the soulmate thing wasn’t just for those in the loop. Maybe all living things had soulmates. Did potatoes have soulmates? Did panda bears?

So, you wore long sleeves to your post at the university by day, and by night, traced your fingers over the child-like pictures on your body that came and went.

* * *

Kraglin Obfonteri worked two jobs. At first, it had been a way of keeping himself fed and not dying on the street like the rest of the people in the city, but the second job turned into something…more. He’d always wanted to be just like his uncle, Yondu, but ever since the man had adopted the stray Peter Quill, he’d found it hard to be near the guy. Even with his mob ties, and the prospect of never having to go a day without food. Kraglin always wanted to be a race-car driver, but with no money and idea how to drive an actual race car, he was left with the one thing he could do. Join his uncle’s mob group, and keep working at the soap shop.

It was nice, being around people who’d had dreams just like his, which had turned to dust. Solidified his ideas, kept him grounded. The money wasn’t bad, and he was always left with a feeling that he was a part of something bigger than him. Like he was tall enough to touch the sky without tiptoes.

It was around the same time, maybe in early February when his doodles on his arms (a product of long customer-less days at the soap shop) started growing in number, and not from his doing. He was fond of the idea of tattoos, or maybe the idea of magic and soulmates and that crap, but when he realised that he had no need for tattoos, and that there was someone out in the world who knew about his little drawings, he felt something different, for once.

Not alone? No. He had a whole life of comradeship and adventures around the city with the Ravagers and even though he’d never be in the seat of a formula one car, he had plenty of practice with getaways and the rush that followed. Maybe it was because he’d never really showed anyone this side of him before. He’d run away from home as a child, and Yondu wasn’t one for words, or at least, getting them out right, but…sharing the pictures on his arms was sort of special, a secret. A good secret that made him feel like he wasn’t such a hard to like guy after all.

But it was almost June when one day, he woke up to see his arm had a message for him. Written in red ink – _like a teacher’s pen that he’d gotten so many Ds from as a child_ , he ruminated – were three words. Not the three words that everyone fantasised about in romance novels and those crazy online pictures that spread around like viruses to make people chuckle. No. It made his stomach churn, his head spin…his fingers quake as he licked his fingers to try and rub the words from his skin.

 _Who are you_?

* * *

It went another month, and two before more pictures came to your skin. In this time, you knuckled down, kept at your job. It was break, and sure, there wasn’t much to do via your actual work, but for once, you were left with time for you. The fantastical Me-Time you’d heard so much about. Though teacher’s assistant pay was next to nothing, you worked as hard as you could, and even went and got another job. It was just as a barista, at a cute little café downtown beside _Starscape_ (a soap shop), nothing you’d not done before getting the TA position. You’d end up with coffee stains and marks all up and down your arms.

Maybe the silence on the other end of the line was because of those bold three words you’d written. Gosh, you’d scared the poor person away from your boldness. But after working at the coffee shop for a while, you noticed some marks on your arms had come, and not of your doing. Swirls. Tally marks for things you didn’t know what for. Sometimes you’d see marks that smelt slightly like car oil, or your hands would be tinted the colour of dirt. It made for a hard time trying to convince your boss at the café that you were going to pass health inspection.

“I was wondering what you got up to in your time off,” a familiar voice intoned. Glancing up, you saw the professor, her white hair out of the tight hairstyle she usually wore, her clothes reminding you something between a second-hand shopper and something they’d walk down a Paris runway. “I’ll have a large affogato and a scone, please.”

You grin, taking your other boss’s order. “Sure thing, Dr Rael.”

She waved the words off. “Please, call me Irani. You’ve deserved it, helping me for so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you!” She notices the manager standing by the phone in the corner, and cries out, “Rhomann! It’s been simply ages!”

As she chatters away, you get her coffee and cake, not noticing the pictures growing up your arms with every passing second.

* * *

Peter noticed the pictures on Kraglin’s arms first out of all the Ravagers. Gosh, Kraglin wasn’t a fan of the boy, and probably never would be, but when the guy came up to him, and mentioned the drawings, he wasn’t anything short of polite. Perhaps it was because they were in _Starscape_ , not around the gang who’d all take turns drilling him for being half in love. But that was until Peter rolled up his shirtsleeve, and revealed a name inked onto his bicep. _Gamora._

 

“Don’t tell Yondu,” the hot-shot blurted out, a sort of blush crossing his face, “’Mora hates me, I swear, and Yondu’ll only make it hard on me. Ever since his soulmate…”

Kraglin nods. “Lips are zipped, Quill.”

But Yondu’s protégé’s lips were not zipped, and motioning to his arms, filled with permanent ink and little doodles and drawings, he added, “I go to the coffee shop next door sometimes, uh, _Screamin' Beans_. When I get days off, from you know, horsing around and shit. But there’s a barista, with (h/c) hair, and this crazy bright smile, and she…” He frowns.

Kraglin huffs. “She what, knows tomorrow’s lottery numbers?”

Peter shakes his head, probably thinking how handy it would be to be a psychic and a gambler, but the words that comes from his mouth aren’t anything to do with people who know the future and/or spend money to make money, “No, K. She has pictures on her arms like you do.” Peter’s phone goes off, the screen lighting up with a girl with purple hair and a murderous smile. “Gotta go. Give Yondu my love, or whatever.”

He nods. “Sure, or whatever.”

It isn’t until he’s closing the soap store that Kraglin is standing alone in the sweet-smelling room that he realises that he’s got a choice. Make a move now, or be left in the dirt. Loads of people don’t end up with their soulmates. His parents were unquestionably soulmates, and all his life, he’d been trying to run away from the idea of having one person in the universe or at least, on Earth, who’d love him until the end of time. Sounded like a capitalist con-job or a Hallmark scam, soulmates. A story to help little kids afraid of dying alone get to sleep at night. But he knew what happened when you wait too long. Yondu was the perfect example of that, and as much as he loved his uncle, he sure as hell didn’t want to end up like him.

He whipped out his phone, and sent a text to Peter. _Tell your damn girl you wanna be smooshing booties or whatever, man!_

Kraglin locks up the place, and all but rushes back to his place, and washes all the pen from his arms. Using nice body wash, he makes sure it’s all off, all of it, all the marks and drawings and stains that changing car batteries too many times a week does to a person’s skin. He’s one for protecting the Earth’s water supply usually, but he takes a full ten minutes soaking in the tub, rubbing it all off his body, until he ends up smelling like goddamned grapefruit.

“Please, please, don’t be too late,” he pleads aloud, but not sure who to. It’s almost a prayer. Maybe it is. He just doesn’t want to lose someone he hasn’t met yet.

* * *

You wake the next morning with your bare skin as clean as it has ever been, perhaps better than anything you’ve ever seen it. No bruises, no pen-marks, nothing from your soulmate. It almost breaks your heart, that it’s all gone, because those months where nothing was written on your skin (figuratively) made your heart almost fall right through your chest and through the floor. You tug on slippers, and push your hair from your eyes. Pop the kettle on, and grab a marker from the mug on the desk (pink). Waiting for the water to boil, you sit upon the counter, and write.

_Who are you?_

You place the marker down, pouring yourself a hot cup of tea, sliding toast down to slowly brown, humming a song to yourself. You almost miss the words growing on your skin, and taking a sip of your tea, you almost choke.

_Kraglin Obfonteri._

Your heart stutters. A reply. A reply! At once, you scribble back your own name, trying not to show how excited you are to see a response. Before you cap your marker, though, you pause, and where all the i’s are, put hearts over the dots. _I’m a barista, at Screamin' Beans._

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” you mutter aloud to nobody, heart racing a million miles a minute. “It’s happening, it’s happening, gosh, it’s actually happening!”

_I work at Starscape. You makin’ coffee today?_

Your poor heart almost stops. The whole soulmate phenomenon was as unpredictable as it sounded, and it sounded pretty unpredictable. Heck, you’d doubted it for most of your life. And here you were. Sitting on the kitchen bench, talking to the person who was destined to be with you.

 _Meet me there at midday,_ you scrawl back. At this, you check the clock on the wall, and screech. Your shift would start in half an hour, and apart from living across town, you’d just woken up, and you’d have to bust ass trying to get there in time. Rushing around, you abandon your tea to throw clothes on, and dry shampoo, and shoes. Picking up the marker, you add, three little words to confirm the gravity of the whole situation. _Don’t be late._

* * *

It’s midday, and Kraglin is doing his best not to crap himself. Probably not the best way to word it, but it’s true. He’s nervous as hell, and when the clock turns from 11:58 to 11:59, he turns the sign on the door to the store to _Closed! Be back in fifteen minutes!_ and walks over to _Screamin' Beans_ as calm as he can. He feels like a teenager all over again, or at least, what he imagined a teenager to be like when they’re giddy from the prospect of love and soulmates and all that schite.

It’s 12:00 as he walks through the door. Inside, he sees four baristas. One is bald and wears a black turtleneck. That can’t be ______, Peter had said she had (h/c) hair. One has a wedding ring. His soulmate can’t be married, gosh, that would make everything so much complicated, and one has (h/c) –

“Kraglin Obfonteri?” He hears the voice on an angel call out. He turns, seeing a fifth barista, with (h/c) hair, and a kind smile, and pink marker on her arms with the same handwriting he has on his wrists. She tilts her head, a kind smile upon her lips, “Right on time.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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